


Texts from ARC #602

by verdreht



Series: Works Inspired by Texts from ARC [1]
Category: Primeval
Genre: And Connor is awkward, And they're both kind of perfect, Angst, Becker is sassy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdreht/pseuds/verdreht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Becker leaned forward on his booth, and over the smell of sweat and smoke in the pub, he got a whiff of old leather and something that smelled a lot like cinnamon. "Trust me," he said. "You can do it. What doesn't kill us just drives us to drink." The last was said with a touch of irony, as he tipped his bottle forward."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Texts from ARC #602

**Author's Note:**

> #602: You can do it. What doesn't kill us just drives us to drink.

He'd always figured Becker for a hard bloke to find. It sort of went hand in hand with the whole 'enigmatic action hero' vibe he had going. So, when he set out to find the man, after he'd disappeared from the ARC without a word to anybody and decided to stop answering his bloody mobile, he'd expected to at least have to do a bit of digging.

Funny how expectation and reality were always so different in Connor's world.

As it turned out, the man still had his black box with him. A quick search on it, and Connor had him tracked down to a pub not too far from there. Kind of disappointing, really.

He wasn't even all that hard to spot in the crowd. It did take Connor a second to remember he wasn't looking for all-black tac gear, that Becker did actually own civilian clothes, but once he remembered that, it didn't take more than a second or two to lock eyes on the vaguely familiar, saw-it-once-or-twice-leaving-work brown leather jacket and the decidedly more familiar shape of the man's back.

He didn't say anything at first, just slid onto the empty stool beside him. A look at the mostly-empty beer bottle sitting in front of him and the completely-empty one pushed off to the side told Connor he'd been at this a while. Or then again, maybe not. He hadn't known the man quite so long as he'd known a lot of the others on the team, but he'd been to enough little get-togethers and post-anomaly pub runs to know Becker could put it away.

Even nearly two – or more, Connor thought; could've just been those were the only ones the bartender hadn't gotten around to clearing yet – beers in, though, Becker was sharp as ever. Well. Mostly. Enough that he didn't even have to break his staring match with the football game on the telly to know who it was that'd just sat down beside him.

"Connor," he said, voice low and a little...husky? Was that the word for it? How it made it in over the din of the pub, Connor couldn't fathom. Yet another mystery to chalk up to the puzzle that was Captain Becker. "Did you need something?"

To the point as always, Becker was. It probably shouldn't have bothered Connor any, but well, it had been the sort of day that it did. So, instead of just answering him and letting the both of them get on with their nights, he caught the bartender passing and pointed to Becker's beer. "I'll have what he's having."

It might've been his imagination, but he could've sworn he saw Becker's eyebrow tick up, then his shoulders bob around a chuckle. He couldn't figure it. Did Becker think he couldn't handle his beer? Granted, he wasn't a beast like Becker. But he could handle a single beer. Bloody hell.

They didn't either of them speak until Connor had his beer and had taken the first couple sips of it. And alright, he'd admit: Becker liked them a bit stronger than he did. Stout, hoppy, and a bit on the bitter side. But it had a good flavour, and it was certainly better than the usual piss water Connor brought home.

"Connor," Becker said again. Apparently, that was the max Becker was willing to let Connor give him the silent treatment.

Connor could begrudgingly admit he was fair to call it off. It'd been a hell of a day, and the man probably just wanted to sit and drink and watch his football in peace. Connor wasn't the kind of arse to get in the way of that. So, instead, he took another sip of beer, then sat it down in favour of reaching into the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a set of keys and dropped them on the bar in front of Becker.

"You left these, mate. In the lockers. Figured you might be needin' them if you wanted to get into your flat tonight." Or house. Or wherever the hell Becker lived, because he honestly didn't know. He could've found out, he guessed; the information was right there at his fingertips, in the files. But that felt a bit invasive. Scratch that. Just plain stalker-ish. Some things, Connor thought ought to be done the old-fashioned way.

He watched Becker's hand reach out to cover the keys. Long fingers closed around them, and Connor couldn't help wondering if Becker's hands had always been that big, or if they just looked that way because they were all scuffed up and whatnot.

Yeah, no. He knew it didn't make any sense. But he was going to go along with it, because it was his head, and he could.

"Thanks," Becker said after a moment.

"Don't mention it." But Connor was a bit distracted as he said it. He couldn't help noticing Becker still wasn't looking at him, and it was starting to get a bit odd. It wasn't that he was that vain. Hell, he'd showered, but he still looked a right mess. He didn't wear the whole "dirtied and battle-wounded" thing as well as Becker seemed to; it was probably best for everyone if people avoided looking at him as much as they could.

No, it wasn't that. It was just, Becker was the kind of guy that always made eye contact. Always. Add that to the fact that he'd clocked out nearly on time instead of three hours after, he'd left his keys – Becker never left anything – and he'd come straight to a pub to start drinking his way through all hundred bottles of beer on the wall. He wasn't really sure what exactly constituted "normal" Becker behaviour, but this didn't seem like this.

He knew it wasn't his place to pry. He hadn't even been meaning to stay, honestly. Just swing by, help a friend out, then head back to the ARC and get some much-needed sleep. Since his attempt to ask Abby to move back in to the flat had failed spectacularly in light of her apology-turned-thank-you-turned-you're-a-great-friend-Connor bit on the stairs, and Lester had all but tossed him out, he'd figured he'd stay there a few days.

But then, he had come to help a friend. And it looked like Becker could still use a bit of helping, inasmuch as he was qualified to offer. Which, realistically, probably wasn't much. Besides, though, after hours in the future running from predators and man-eating super bugs from Hell...he could use a few more drinks himself.

"I'm not really one to pry—"

"Since when?"

There wasn't any bite to it, so Connor decided to let that bit of snark go. "—but I couldn't help noticing you seem a bit not yourself, mate. No offense, but you're even broodier than usual."

When Becker didn't answer, Connor chanced a glance over. He was in the middle of a one-sided shrug, as if to say 'you're not wrong.'

"So, can I ask what it is, then?"

At that, Becker did turn, an incredulous sort of look on his face, muted as it was, replacing the one that'd been there before. "You were there," he said simply. Pointedly. It still impressed Connor how someone could manage to cram about ten sentences worth of meaning into one, and not a particularly long one at that.

He did, though, and Connor got at least the drift of it. "This is about the..." he waved his hand vaguely for Becker to fill in the rest. That was the trouble, doing what they did. Well, one of. It was that they couldn't exactly hash things out in public, without using a lot of really odd hand gestures and really vague descriptions. Whatever. It worked. "Right. Well...I know the feeling."

"I hope not."

There he went again. Three words, but there was so much behind them. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glance at Becker's, and suddenly, all the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. The look in them...bloody hell. He hadn't noticed before, under all the snarky eyebrow raises and typical Becker-isms, but he did now, and he was kicking himself for not seeing it sooner.

He looked bloody rough.

It wasn't just his eyes, really. He'd been put through the ringer, and it showed. His nose was scratched, and Connor knew on his other side, his cheekbone was scuffed raw. There was a bruise on his temple, and his lip was split, and he had this sort of weariness to him that Connor could actually sympathize with.

His eyes, though, they were the worst of it. They didn't just look tired. Didn't just look bloodshot and baggy and dark. They looked...well, "haunted" seemed like such a dramatic word. Like the sort of thing that you only got to use if you were a best-selling author of something, which Connor decidedly was not. But if the shoe fit. And this one did. Really, really, startlingly well.

For a minute, Connor was thrown. Becker was the action man. Becker didn't get shaken up after anything. Not a Pristichampus his first day at work, not a Dracorex and a knight from the past that had them all pegged as demons. Hell, he hadn't even had the decency to look a little bit rustled after that flesh-eating fungus had nearly killed two of the team. Angry, maybe. But shaken? Not even a little bit.

He wracked his brain, trying to think of something that was different. The predators, he guessed. They were a new breed of not-to-be-fucked-with, and Connor knew he'd be seeing those snarling jowls in his sleep for a while yet. But he didn't know. He'd sort of expected Becker to just pop up at work after the weekend was out, same as he always was, no harm done.

Maybe he would. He had two days to drink himself into a stupor and pull himself back together. But for the time being, he wasn't there.

"So, what happened?" he asked after a time. Specifically, about two minutes, half a beer, and one goal scored by England over Poland. Hurrah. Colour him the classic nerd, but he'd just never really been big into sports. 'Course, he knew from experience, get Becker and Danny in a room, ply them with enough alcohol, and set them in front of the telly with a game on, and it was a party all its own.

He digressed.

Becker took his time answering. He had his beer by the neck, swirling it around and watching like it held the secrets of the universe. "What do you mean?"

"After you ran off." Except that seemed like a really unappreciative way of saying "after you risked your arse to save all of ours," so he tried again. "When you were off on your own, you know, before you popped out of that car and kept us from being predator bait. Again."

He swore he saw Becker tense beside him. Right then. Jackpot.

"Nothing of note," was Becker's eventual answer.

"See, you say that. But I sort of don't think you mean it. I mean, just look at the state of you." He paused. "Well, obviously, you know the state of you. Since it's, you know, you. But I know you were better off before you left than after you came back. I'm just wondering what happened in the in-between." What he didn't say, what he really wanted to ask, was what he'd seen or done or had done that was enough to rattle him.  _Him_.

Becker polished off the last of his beer, and Connor had to wait until the bartender brought him another before he got an answer. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Connor turned to give him a look.

"You know I meant," Becker said with a roll of his eyes. "Predators are just creatures."

"Yeah, but you have to admit – they're a bit dodgier than our usual."

Had it been anyone else shrugging like Becker did, Connor wouldn't have bought it. But it was Becker. So, maybe. But clearly, something had gotten to him.

"So, what was it, then?"

"What was what?"

"You know, whatever it was."

"If you tried, could you be any less specific?" Becker asked dryly. "Whatever it is you want to know, Connor, just ask and get it over with."

"Promise not to shoot me?" It was just a joke, a weak attempt to lighten the heavy mood.

Mostly.

Sighing, Becker shifted his beer to the other hand. "Promise," he said, then pulled his coat aside. No sidearm present. Granted, considering Becker could probably kill him with a lime wedge, it wasn't a guarantee. But he appreciated the spirit of the thing.

"It's just...you look like you've seen a ghost, mate. And if it's not the predators..." He let it trail off, let it hang. If Becker wanted to take it, he could, but he wouldn't push the subject. Maybe he'd just order him another round or something, watch the game, and not really talking. Maybe that'd be better suited to a bloke like Becker than having it out about their feelings.

He thought Becker was going to leave it, too. And maybe he was a bit disappointed – they were friends, weren't they? And if Becker couldn't talk to him about this sort of thing, then who did he have to talk to? – but it was Becker's story. His life.

But then, Becker sighed again. "I'm a soldier, Connor."

"I know that." The 'what's the got to do anything' went unsaid, but heavily implied.

"I had a career before the ARC."

Connor thought he might be starting to catch on. "Right. So, you were actually, you know, out there. In the thick of it." It seemed obvious when he said it, but thinking back, he'd never really considered it. Becker just... _was_. He'd turned up that day at the museum, all guns and glory and grim disposition, and Connor hadn't really given him much thought. He hadn't considered everything leading up to his showing up there. He hadn't thought about what all had gone into his "distinguished military record."

He hadn't thought about why Becker could stare down a Pristichampus without batting an eyelash on his very first day at the ARC.

Now, it was all he could think about. "Bloody hell." He hadn't meant to say it aloud; it'd just sort of slipped out. But he thought it was well-deserved. He knew war was bad. Everyone knew that; it was all some people talked about, protesting them. The horrors of it. But he'd never really taken it to heart until right then, in that moment.

The kinds of things Becker had to have seen to make a giant prehistoric crocodile seem not-so-bad...he wondered what that must've been like. He wondered if he still thought about it sometimes.

He wondered if that had anything to do with the storm clouds in Becker's eyes as he turned them back towards the telly.

"Now he gets it," Becker said. Connor might've been a bit miffed, only it didn't sound so much sarcastic as relieved, in a way. Like he was actually grateful Connor was catching on. Less explaining for him, Connor guessed.

"So, back in the future..." And it was sad, really, that it'd been the kind of day where he couldn't even appreciate the chance to say something like that. Hard to laugh about it when he was too busy shuddering every time he thought about it. "Was it anything like what you did before?"

"I was in special ops, Connor."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I can't give you any details," Becker said blandly. "Or else I'd have to kill you, and I've worked too bloody hard these past few months trying to keep you dinosaur-loving lunatics alive."

Maybe it was Connor's imagination, or some sort of wishful thinking, but he could've sworn there was a bit of fondness there. Just a bit.

"Alright then. No details." Because fond as he may or may not have been, it was always really hard to tell if Becker was kidding. "Still."

He might not've been a soldier, but even he could see the difference between what they usually did, and what they did today. Closing anomalies and dealing with incursions was dangerous work, but it was a different kind of dangerous. They were surrounded by civilians more often than not, trying to take care of them while simultaneously trying to track down whatever creature made it through the anomaly. There was still a world around them. Plenty of people to back them up, usually, too.

Today, though...the future was desolate. Broken-down cars, arid land, and not a person in sight. Just predators and megopterans. Just things trying to eat them or lay their eggs in them or just generally put an end to the lives they generally very much enjoyed in a variety of horrible, stomach-turning ways.

And Becker had been alone in it, for a while there. He'd been on his own, not knowing if he was going to get back or if he was even going to survive long enough to meet up with them again. He'd been one man on enemy territory, hunted and hurt, with nothing but his weapons and his wits about him to keep him breathing.

"I'm sorry." This one didn't slip out. This one, Connor meant to say, even if he hadn't really thought it through.

Becker turned to him, eyebrow raised. "For what?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"For all of it. For Jack, dragging us all to Hell after him. For making you risk your arse to save all of us from those things. For not listening to you when you said it was a piss poor idea."

"You would've done it even if you had listened to me," Becker said, equal parts annoyed and amused.

Connor shrugged. "Well, yeah. But we should've at least thought about it."

"You mean before you decided to ignore me anyway."

"Yep."

"Well, that's some improvement," Becker said. "I guess."

"Take it from me, mate: with we dinosaur-loving lunatics, it's probably best you just take what you can get."

Becker actually seemed to crack a bit of a smile at that, around the lip of his beer bottle. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Right. I just...I know what happened today can't have been very, you know, good for you." He wasn't really sure what Becker's deal was. If he even had a deal. Or PTSD or something. Or nothing at all. Or...bloody hell, he was rambling in his own head.

It was Becker that snapped him out of it, with a very wry, "I don't suppose what happened today was very good for anybody." Then he turned in his stool, leaning an elbow on the bar. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Becker's only response was a very pointed look. Really, Connor wasn't sure why he bothered. Becker was a human lie detector.

It was Connor's turn to sigh and take a drink. "I dunno," he answered finally. It wasn't much of one. It didn't seem fair. Becker had been...weirdly forthcoming. Connor wondered if it had anything to do with all the beers he'd polished off, and the little bit of a blush he was getting on his cheeks. Definitely more than two-going-on-three. Connor wondered vaguely how many more, before pulling himself back on track. He bowed his shoulders. "I can't get it out of me head."

"Can't get what out of your head?"

Connor frowned. He didn't want to talk about it, honestly. Didn't even want to think about it. He just couldn't stop. It was there every time he closed his eyes. He could hear the taunting snickers, the clicks. He was so close to that one. He could smell its breath. If it hadn't been for Becker...

He shuddered, and hoped against hope Becker wouldn't notice. "Those things. Where we were...I can't help wondering if that's what's really going to happen? If everything that we're doing, everything that's happening, if it's all going to lead to that nightmare of a place someday." Because that was really what it came down to. It wasn't the creatures, terrifying as they were; it was the future. What it held, or didn't hold. "When Cutter died..." his voice caught, and he cleared it, trying again. "When Cutter died, he trusted it to me. All of it. The artefact, figuring out what it meant, what it could do. But I didn't...I didn't know about this." He turned to Becker, trying and failing to swallow back the lump forming in his throat and ignore the burning in his eyes. "How am I supposed to stop that? What can I do? Or what if something I do's what makes that happen? It's all I can think about. Cutter trusted me to figure it out, but what if...what if I can't? What if I screw it up, and the world really does end up like that? What's the point of all of this, then? What's the point of it?"

He could've gone on. Would've gone on, probably, because now that he'd gotten started, it was like a dam breaking. But then Becker's hand settled on his shoulder, and whatever rambling he'd been about to devolve into, it died on his lips.

For the record, Connor didn't think it was fair that someone that many beers in could manage to look so intense. But he did. He was looking Connor dead in the eyes, and Connor couldn't have looked away even if he'd wanted to. What colour were his eyes, even, he wondered a little errantly? Too light to be brown, but too brown to be green. Some weird sort of hazel that seemed to change depending on the way the light hit them. And bloody hell, why was he even looking so hard?

Becker's voice snapped him out of his little impromptu profiling. "The point's that it isn't set in stone," Becker said firmly. "Never mind the people we're protecting, the point is that this Helen bitch is convinced she can change the present doing what she's doing."

At that point, it didn't really matter what colour Becker's eyes were; they darkened at the mention of her. He practically spat her name, and there was a hardness to him that chilled Connor a bit. For all their chummy ribbing, Becker was the kind of man it didn't pay to piss off. It was a lesson he hoped more than he probably should've that Helen would learn the hard way.

"And?" Connor pressed. He knew there was a point Becker was trying to make; he just wasn't following it.

Becker actually smiled. Sort of. The slightest upturn of his lip, as much grim as smug, but it was there all the same. "And if she can change the present," he said, lifting his beer, "then who's to say we can't change the future?"

The smile, unfortunately, didn't take with Connor. It was all well and good, what Becker was saying. But, "It's not that simple."

"I know it's not. Nothing ever is. But that doesn't change anything." Becker leaned forward on his booth, and over the smell of sweat and smoke in the pub, he got a whiff of old leather and something that smelled a lot like cinnamon. "Trust me," he said. "You can do it. What doesn't kill us just drives us to drink." The last was said with a touch of irony, as he tipped his bottle forward.

He hesitated a moment, but eventually, Connor met the toast, clinking his own bottle against Becker's with a small smile of his own. "To drinking, then."

"That's the spirit."

A lot of that went around that night, actually: spirit. Spirits, actually, with an "s." In Connor's defence, Becker was the one that started it. Apparently, their day deserved more than just a few beers – Connor had the sneaking suspicion they just weren't doing the trick for him, and he was determined to drag someone else down with him – so he ordered them a round of shots. Then another. Then another. Connor footed the bill for a few of them, and by the end of the game, they were both more than a little sloshed.

They made it back to Becker's by cab. Connor wasn't really sure why he went along, but it wasn't as if he had someplace better to be. The ARC, really. And that wasn't going anyplace. So there he and Becker were, dragging their arses up five flights of stairs, leaning half on each other and half on the rails until the door spat them out.

They ended up in his living room, watching telly. Becker dug a couple more beers out of his fridge, and bloody hell did he have a collection in there. Connor'd only caught a glimpse of it, but half the top shelf of his fridge was taken up with assorted bottles. Connor didn't even finish his. Bit strong for his taste, although he had a sneaking suspicion the one Becker was nursing was a good bit stronger.

It was Becker on the couch, long legs stretched out across the length of it. He'd shed the leather jacket in favour of sitting around in one of those bloody flannels he seemed to be so fond of. Really, could he be a bit more macho? Deep red flannel, military watch on his wrist, beer in his hand resting against his knee. He was watching the news like it had some deeper meaning, all furrowed brow and pursed lips. How the hell he was concentrating with the amount of alcohol he'd packed away, Connor couldn't fathom. He was having trouble enough just keeping his eyes open.

Until he wasn't.

He woke the next morning, as expected, to the sound of a hundred toy drummers beating about in his head. What caught him a bit by surprise, though, was what he saw when he opened his eyes. Mercifully, it wasn't too bright. Once he did a quick mental recap and figured out where he was, he took a second to thank Becker for not being the sort to let the sunshine in first thing in the morning.

On the subject.

With more effort than it probably should've taken, he unfurled himself from the chair he'd apparently passed out in the night before. Perks of being small, he guessed. He could sleep just about anywhere; size was a non-issue, and he didn't tend to wake up sore. Besides, well, feeling like he'd been hit by a lorry. But something told him that had less to do with his choice of sleeping arrangements and more to do with the all around bad life choices he'd made before.

Then again, maybe not "bad," per se. He felt better, in an I'm-about-to-toss-cookies-and-my-brain's-sorta-sloshy kind of way. Lighter, maybe. Now all he needed was some aspirin and something to get the fuzz off his tongue, and he'd be in good spirits.

There was no sign of Becker, but a quick search around the place revealed a note, tucked under an upside-down glass with a couple pills sitting on the top.

Connor took the note, recognizing the neat hand and all capital letters of his gracious host, Captain Becker. "Connor—" he read. "Sorry. Called into work for security stuff. There's aspirin on the glass and water in the refrigerator (I wasn't sure how long you'd be sleeping), and you can help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Shower is yours if you need one, toiletries under sink, and notes on the bar if you need a taxi." There were a few lines scratched out, and not the sort of scratched out that Connor could read. Becker had scratched out the lines with extreme prejudice; Connor knew they were a lost cause. At the end, there were just two lines. "Thanks for the keys. Lock up on your way out."

He read over it a few more times, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything, but as he put it down and went to go fill up the glass of water, he found himself smiling a bit. Hangover aside, last night had been...good for him. Maybe for Becker, too. Funny how a little alcohol – or a lot – could lighten the load like it had. In exchange for that, a hangover didn't seem like all that heavy a price to pay.

Knocking back the pills, he toasted the air. "What doesn't kill us," he said, and then he took a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated. Five to ten seconds from you is all it takes to make my whole day. I'm like a puppy. Really. It's depressing.


End file.
